


When the Dog Bites

by locusdesperatus



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drunken Introspection, Introspection, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21815119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locusdesperatus/pseuds/locusdesperatus
Summary: Don't drink Kraken, kids.
Kudos: 17





	When the Dog Bites

His eyes snap open, focused on the ceiling. He should move, every instinct is telling him to move, to _go_ , to be _anywhere but here._ But he can't. He can't shake off the terror gripping his body like a vice, can't even reach for the knife under his pillow. His heart is beating against his ribcage and it's loud, it's so loud. He can't even tell if he's breathing, it doesn't feel like he is, but his chest doesn't burn like he's running out of air. It feels heavy, like someone parked a semi on top of him. His eyes are watering. He tries to move his arm again. No response.

He swears something moves in his peripheral vision, and a new spike of terror lances through his stomach. What the fuck was that? What the _fuck_ was that? He's panicked now, and can finally hear his labored breathing. He can't turn to look, isn't sure he wants to. Dread has settled in now, hooked deep in his airway. This is it, he's going to die half naked in his own bed because he can't _fucking_ move. 

And then, without warning, all his muscles respond at once. He lets out a half-choked yell, propelling himself sideways off the bed. Knife in hand, he collapses, not quite coordinated enough to stay upright. 

"Shit!" He looks around wildly, hair flying in his eyes. There's nothing. His room is empty. Unconvinced, he pushes his feet beneath him, and stumbles over to the lightswitch. The added light reveals nothing, only the mess of his blankets and the dirty socks still on his floor. He ducks down to check under the bed, and then wrenches his closet open, pulse still at home in his eardrums. Everything is in order. He drops the knife- rather carelessly, and luckily missing his toes- before collapsing onto the carpet. 

"Get it together, Kennedy." He spits out. His hands shake, but he presses them against the floor, willing himself simultaneously to not fall on his face and to not puke all over the carpet. It seems like hours pass before he can stand on wobbly legs. Even more time before he has the courage to push open his door. The rest of his apartment is pitch black, and he fumbles for the switch. He can't deal with dark rooms right now, it's too much. Everything is too much. 

He wants to scream, wants to yell and break something, wants to get whatever is clawing its way up from his diaphragm out. His neighbors wouldn't appreciate that. His landlord would be pissed. He'd get the cops called on him, and then he'd have to sit through one of Simmons' lame ass talks about how he needs to be more professional. It's not worth it, but the urge is there and it's strong. Desperate, he opens one of the cupboards above his fridge, sighing in defeat.

"Dammit." His fingers wrap around the neck of a bottle, bringing it down. He spins the cap until it's loose before flicking it into the sink. His hands shake more than he wants to admit, and he stares down into the drink. He doesn't really want to drink it. Not at 4:50 in the morning. He shouldn't get blackout drunk less than two hours before his work alarm is set to go off. He should get up, shower, eat some toast, then get dressed and go gun down monsters, risking his life and his sanity for the human race. He _shouldn't_ spend the day drunkenly watching Knight Rider reruns. 

Fuck it. Fuck it all.

It really shouldn't burn this much, he thinks, lowering the bottle from his lips. Not the liquor. The liquor burns just fine. The sting of misery, however, is sharper than the iron maiden's spines, than Krauser's knife, than that _fucking_ needle. Krauser was dead. The iron maiden was long gone. But the plagas, that was forever. It had torn through his DNA, shredding cells and creating new ones, rewriting his body's hardwiring. He's tougher now, sure, and slightly more radioactive, but he was still _him._ And maybe that was the worst part. It hadn't mutated him into some monstrosity to be put down by the BSAA, or turned him into a living contamination hazard, it had only made him better. 

It's horrible, it's fucking horrible. He takes another, longer drink, making a face at the dryness. He needs to sit down. He drags his feet to his bedroom, not bothering to turn off the lights. Sitting down on the bare mattress, he rubs his face. 

"Fuck." He drinks, then stops, and quickly takes another drink. He's supposed to oversee a mission today, give commands from the safety of a fucking control room while a squad of kids gets themselves killed. He slumps his shoulders, sighing. He can't do this much longer. He's tired, old wounds ache, new wounds throb. He's going to fuck up one of these days, something's going to break or give out, and he'll be a smear of blood on some undead scientist's lab coat. He takes another drink. 

He can't remember the last time he's slept through the night. Can't remember the last time he's wanted to get up in the morning. The last few months have been an onslaught of work, cheap t-virus knock-offs and expensive c-virus clones trading hands and cropping up everywhere. 

He sways slightly. Is he already that drunk? He looks at the bottle, swishing it slightly. Damn, those sips were bigger than he thought. He takes another anyway, then spots his knife still on the floor. He picks it up on wobbly legs, tucking it back under his pillow. Stretching out on the bed, he covers his eyes. The light is too bright, but he can't turn it off without having another breakdown. The bottle is cold against his chest, cradled in his elbow. 

"This is what I've become." He says, words slurring. He laughs. "A drunk fucking bastard with nothing to my name except bodies." He drinks again. "Fucking hell." His laugh turns into a quiet sob before he realizes. He sets a hand on his chest to try and calm himself, feeling his ribs jump as he cries. He doesn't feel the tears rolling down his cheeks, only the way his ribs contract. He stares at the ceiling until his eyes ache and burn, forcing him to close them with a sigh. He hiccups, groaning softly. He's having a moment with his trauma, do his bodily functions have to interrupt? Another hiccup.

"Fuckin' bullsh- hicc!" He takes another drink, hoping it will quell his diaphragm. It doesn't, and he curses in frustration. "Motherfuckin'-" He nearly gags at how strong the force of the next hiccup is. "Jesus." He closes his eyes, trying to force himself to relax. Another hiccup has him curling in on himself, groaning. He sets the bottle on his nightstand so it doesn't spill. He thinks distantly about how he should try drugs instead. Xanax, maybe even marijuana. Of course he knows where to get both, and the dealers won't question him if he asked for it. They won't cross a cop, especially not a government agent. He's seen it enough times, had enough dealers go through his office with information on terrorists, laundering ops, prostitution rings, everything. 

He makes a mental note to look into it before another hiccup makes him flinch. 

"Damn it!" He cusses. His fingers slide under the pillow, searching for his phone. He glances at the too-bright screen, narrowing his eyes. Nearly 5:20 now. He should probably text Hunnigan and tell her he won't be coming in today. The numbers and letters on the screen become indistinguishable the longer he stares at them, and he lets the device go with a frustrated noise. Later. He resolves himself to text her in a few minutes, when he's less impaired. He hiccups again, but relief settles in his shoulders when he realizes it's less violent than before. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling again. 

Without a doubt, he should really see a therapist, not do drugs. It's a moment of clarity that makes him frown. Since-fucking-when had the DSO's supposed "best in class" therapists ever done a damn thing for him? Never. They'd manipulated him after Raccoon, they'd used him like a lab rat after the plagas incident, and spun stories about how the DSO never would have let him die in Eastern Slav. He didn't believe them. Not for a moment.

He had been almost entirely alone. Only the "freedom fighters" to keep him company. And the fucking lickers. He could handle being cut off from backup, kidnapped, and continually denied answers, but the lickers? He shudders at the memory of the one who had gotten on top of him, it's teeth inches from his face. Buddy had been controlling it, trying to get it to tear him apart. Bastard. He doesn't regret sparing the man, but god damn if that hadn't been the worst part of the whole mission. So many of the things crawling all over, everywhere he looked. Hanging from the ceiling, sticking to the walls, scraping their way across the floor. The wet sounds of their tongues catching on debris and flesh alike, like warm jello. 

"Ugh." He curls his lip at the comparison. It had taken a few days for him to fully accept that he would have died if not for the foul creatures. Sure, he'd thanked Buddy, had told him how unexpected it was, but the sentiment hadn't fully processed until he'd fallen onto his knees back at home, vomiting up the breakfast he'd only just eaten. 

Saved by the monstrosities he's spending his life hunting. The ones that have crossed him so many times he's become numb to the threat of their claws, to the long slide of their tongue. Or so he'd assumed. It's apparent now that he isn't as resilient as he'd hoped to be. 

He checks his phone again. 5:42. 

_I'm sick_

He stares at the screen. It's good enough. He presses send, covering his eyes with his forearm. His phone vibrating startles him. What the fuck? Does the woman sleep?

_Sick how? Do you need a doctor?_

He thinks for a long moment.

_No_

The device buzzes to life urgently, and he groans.

"Huh?" He speaks into it.

"Leon? Are you okay?" Hunnigan seems wide awake, truly an impressive feat.

"S'fine." He swallows, trying to loosen his tongue. "Just need some sleep."

"You can't sleep?" She sounds genuinely concerned, which really shouldn't surprise him. It does, and he frowns.

"No. Bad dreams."

"Nightmares? Leon, you need to talk to the therapist."

Shit, he should not have said that.

"No, no. I just need to sleep a bit more." He waves his hand, knowing she can't see it. She's quiet for a moment, and he glances at the screen to make sure the call hasn't dropped.

"Are you drunk?" Her voice is a lot sharper now. Leon hesitates, weighing his options quickly.

"Look…" He rubs his face. "Yeah, I am."

"God damn it, Leon!" She cusses at him, something she's never done before. "You need to talk to the therapists. I'm making you an appointment myself, and I'll drag you there if I have to."

"Fine. Fine." He groans. "Just wanna sleep."

Hunnigan sighs from the other end.

"Then go to sleep, I'll text you the date and time a little later. Try to get some rest, you need it."

"Mhm. Okay… Bye." He hangs up, setting the phone aside. His body feels so heavy, sinking him into the blankets. His eyes close, and he suddenly feels weightless, as if sight was the only thing tethering him to the mattress. His arms feel alien as he tries to move them, his muscles slow and uncoordinated. When he's finally comfortable, he opens his eyes again, crashing back down to earth. The whiplash makes him retch, grabbing at his stomach. 

"What the fuck is…?" He reaches for the bottle, double checking the label. Kraken. No wonder. He sets it back down, muttering under his breath. He'll be vomiting up brown sludge in a few hours, a side effect of ingesting so much of the cephalopod-themed rum. He hasn't eaten anything recently, either, so his empty stomach will only compound his future misery. 

"Fuckin' alcoholic." Leon curses at himself. He runs a hand over his face. He should really just try and sleep it off. It's possible that he's drunk enough not to wake up frozen again, but… you can never be too sure. He takes the bottle, upending it and gulping down a solid amount before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"Gross." The aftertaste is horrible. It's supposed to taste like cinnamon, cloves, and coffee, but it's mostly "bad decision at a college frat party" with a hint of "I woke up in an alleyway with no pants and mono." 

He snorts at his own comparison, grabbing hold of his blankets. Curling up with his back pressed firmly against the wall, he stares at the closet doors opposite him until his vision unfocuses. It's just starting to get light outside, and that comforts him a little. He can sleep now, he thinks. He can sleep and let someone else deal with the world's bullshit for just one day.

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: @pointofdespair


End file.
